you really got a hold on me | john lennon

CHAPTER SEVENTY

April 12th, 1962

There John stood before me. He leaned on the frame of the door—the door itself only being partially opened. With just one look into his eyes, I could already see that they were stripped of the usual cocky, familar stare that I had grown to be accustomed to over the years. It didn't feel the same looking at John without that smug look on his face. In its place, I was met with a gaze bordering on blank; the abrupt news of Stu's death draining the life out of him. To see someone usually so eccentric be left emotionless was haunting. I was no stranger to this side of John, but still it seemed like something no one's eyes were meant to see.

The only thing being exchanged between us was silence. Neither of us dared to be the first to speak.

When I first had agreed to come and try talking to John, it had gone far smoother in my head. Somehow it slipped my mind that things wouldn't just fall into place as soon as we saw each other. There wasn't a way to just...spark a casual conversation between us. He and I shared too much entangling history for that to be able to happen—with too many things left unsaid—for us to just kick things back off with small talk.

That's what made it considerably harder to even attempt being his main source of comfort this time around. In times past with George and Julia's deaths, the complications that kept us apart now didn't exist. We were only each other's best friends back then. Friends that had basically grown up together and learned to look out for each other. Even as all the numerous girlfriends and boyfriends started to trickle in, John and I only had each other's wellbeing as the first thing on our minds.

And most importantly, back then I knew for a fact that my presence was warranted. That it would actually be of some help to him in his darkest moments.

Because right now, it was hard to tell what emotions had arise in John when he opened up his door to me after a year of absolutely no contact. It was uncertain if in the next few minutes John would be relieved that I was here or turn me away. He had turned the rest of them away after all—including Astrid, who you would think he'd consider being a bit gentler with because she was grieving her fiancee. What in their right minds had convinced the rest of them that it would end any differently for me?

Perhaps it was only me who was thinking this through, but ringing up an old ex of his to come over without warning didn't look to be the best option for someone neck deep in his own sorrow.

The second our relationship turned sour, it had begun to overshadow all the years we had spent together. We would never again look back and think of each other as a close childhood friend or as someone we had leaned on for most of our lives. From then on, we were just another failed relationship. John and I meant nothing to each other now.

Not lovers. Not mates. Not even on friendly terms or whatever other labels you wanted to slap onto us. We were two stubborn people who tempted fate by even daring to get together in the first place thinking we could be different; ignoring all the clear messages from the universe to give it a rest and ending up with hurt far beyond repair. If only we knew better than to jeapordize our friendship, because in the end we weren't as all knowing as we pretended to be. The two of us were kids without a single idea of how serious things had gotten in a short span of time.

"What a wonderful surprise to see you...and all dressed up," John remarked sarcastically. "I think you've got the wrong door. Paul's is the one right across. I'm sure he'll be happy to give you a shag especially while you're spiffed up. Nothing you aren't used to, aye?"

I watched as a wall began to build higher and higher around John. He was blocking off any emotions from both Stu's death and my appearance already, masking it all with insults I hadn't heard before. But even then, hearing it spat so bitterly from his mouth is what made it sting as much as it did. I knew he was bladdered—the alcohol stinging my nostrils—which made it the tiniest bit easier to see past the jabs. Though as I learned with John, his drunken words were merely sober thoughts of his.